--- burning flames or paradise ---
by Dark-Moon-4011
Summary: The South Park kids are approaching the end of twelfth grade. Stan can't seem to keep his head above water, Kyle's no better, and the rest of the year are all growing disillusioned with the world. TRIGGER WARNING - references to self harm, dependence, etc.
1. --- Stan's chunderings ---

**CHAPTER 1: In which the Protagonist, inebriated, turns for Help and is met with Disdain**

"For the love of _Joshua,_ Stanley Marsh, we've been through this!"

Staring at him from the other side of the doorframe was an angry Jewish mother, red hair flying about and – oh no, wait, it was Kyle.

 _"Whaaattttttt?_ "

"You're drunk."

" _I'm nooooooooooot."  
_

"Fine, you've been 'self-medicating' again."

" _I've told youuu, I've not had anyyyyy,_ " he drawled. And then he puked. Right on Kyle's slippers. Shit.

"For fuck's sake, Stan, you should be happy my mum's not at home." Kyle sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, before turning and fetching a bag of sawdust and a bucket.

Ike stared on from the stairwell, confused and slightly disgusted by the increasingly potent stench of alcohol and stomach juices coming from the door. "You sure know how to make an entrance, Stan," he called, before retreating upstairs.

Stan wasn't sure if he was going to 'make an entrance again', but Kyle returned (notably barefoot) with a bucket to pre-empt any further home decoration. He dumped a little too much sawdust onto Stan's chunderings and then patted down on it with some toilet tissue. He stood up, tutted, and walked back into the house, leaving Stan head-first in the large blue (mercifully still empty) bucket on the front step of the house. A pause, then:

"I guess you're coming in?"

Stan heaved up from his knees, and dragged the bucket in with him, somehow managing to avoid the congealing piles of wood dust on the floor, and slammed the door behind him.

" _Sorryyyyyyyyyyy_."

"Just get your sorry ass up to my room, we need to talk."

Ike promptly came to Stan at the sound of his brother's voice to help him up the stairs.

"Stan," the Canadian said, "leave the bucket."

Stan paused, then turned around and set the bucket deliberately on the floor. Ike helped him waddle up the stairs and left him at the door of Kyle's room. Stan stood there blankly, looking vaguely into the redhead's bedroom, before Kyle once again snapped him out of his inebriated stupor:

"Get in."

Stan stumbled in and fell onto Kyle's bed. Kyle looked distastefully at the drooling pile of Marsh that now occupied his mattress, but said nothing on the matter. At least, not for a minute or two. But when he began to hear snoring, he finally had had enough.

"Jesus, Stan! Pull yourself together!" he yelled, throwing the first thing to hand at his friend.

" _Fuck!_ " Stan responded with a mix of shock, pain and anger in his voice, as a calculus textbook ricocheted off of his sweat-decked forehead. " _Jeeeeeeesus Kyle, calm doooooooooooown._ "

"Dude. You're drinking way too much at the moment! You've got to control yourself!"

" _Kyyyyyyyyyyyyyle…_ "

"Don't fucking say a word. I've read you like a book Stanley, and you know it."

Stan, surprisingly (even to himself), stayed silent. He fumed. He didn't like being called Stanley – it felt stuffy and wrong. Kyle knew this, and so he continued to do it. Stan also didn't like how Kyle was always right. But hey, when everything is literally turning to shit, sometimes you have to have a little drink. Stan took a few breaths and steadied himself.

" _Kyyyyyle, I neeeeeed it._ "

"What you need is a different way to cope with everything."

" _It's the only thing that woooooooorks!_ "

"It's the only think you've found that works." Kyle responded. Stan fell silent again, and his face contorted into a babyish frown.

Kyle sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. Stan smirked a little; Kyle was becoming a parody of himself. This final year of school had made him grouchier, more temperamental, more impatient, smarter, funnier, kinder – more of every notable personality trait that set him apart from the rest of the idiots in the town. Stan began to chuckle. He found that quite funny.

Kyle, who had been rooting through his desk drawers, turned with confusion to face his friend. He couldn't help but crack a small smile. Stan noticed, and abruptly stopped chuckling with a cough, which in turn made Kyle frown.

Silence. Then Kyle went and said it:

"What's up, Stan?"

Stan paused. He couldn't say. He knew he couldn't say. So many things were up, but he couldn't say any of them. He breathed again.

" _Let's not do this, Kyle. Let me just be here._ " He didn't slur that. He was serious.

Kyle sighed, but refrained from pinching his nose for the third time. Stan noticed, and all of a sudden his eyes welled up. He kicked his sneakers off, flung himself around and curled up on his side of the bed, facing the wall. Kyle's face fell from disdain to hurt, and he turned to leave, to find Ike. Stan heard him go and the tears in his eyes began to fall. His head hurt, his chest hurt, his stomach hurt, and his limbs felt like lead. He cradled himself in his own tears, and slowly began to drift off. As the numbness of sleep came over him, he could faintly hear at the edges of his perception Kyle and his brother shouting at the other end of the hall.


	2. --- the next best thing ---

**CHAPTER 2: In which Help comes from a somewhat unexpected Place**

Shelly had taken his whisky. Fuck.

Needless to say, even if his dad was an idiot and his mother disconnected with most things in life, they didn't take too kindly to their drunken stinking son rocking up at their house at 2:30 in the morning. Sheila and Gerald had been more accommodating, and offered to drive Stan home, but he insisted he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Ike begged Stan to let him follow him home to make sure nothing happened, and Stan reluctantly agreed. Kyle was nowhere to be seen. The walk was silent. Stan was still crying.

Stan always managed to hold it together until the holidays. It practically drained him of all of his energy every semester, but it meant he could enjoy something of a social life while school was in. But it also meant that when he crashed during the holidays, he really crashed. And he was really crashing right now.

He didn't get out of bed the following day. Despite anyone's best efforts, including Ike (who wanted to make sure he was even conscious and hadn't 'choked in his own barf'), Stan just stared at the wall, unable to move from a stonking hangover and unable to dampen the pain with his beloved alcohol.

Kyle certainly didn't come over. Ike apologised. Ike was a good kid. Stan couldn't remember whether he thanked him for his concern.

To be honest, Stan wasn't sure he'd said a single word to anybody for the entire day.

He had tried to convince his parents that his 'cynicism' was something deeper – but of course they told him that he was just being cynical, he needed to look on the bright side, he needed to just relax. But the feelings wouldn't go away, the alcohol stopped helping, and now Stan felt worse than ever before.

Kyle had always been his crutch when everything else failed. But Kyle had grown up and matured, and Stan felt like he had been left behind. He was 17, he was going to graduate in a few months, he was going to go on a gap year, he was going to forget about this crappy little mountain town – and Kyle was going to forget about it all too, but he wasn't going travelling aimlessly, he was flying off to England because he'd gotten an offer from Oxford to study Mathematics and Philosophy, and there was no way he wouldn't make the grades, and he'd start over and never return and his entire old life would be forgotten. Stan saw it all unfolding, and began to cry again.

"Stan?"

Shit. Ike was still here.

"How long have you been sitting there?" Stan managed to utter as he rolled over, dabbing at his eyes, to face his best friend's brother.

"About five hours." Pause. "I'm worried about you."

"It's nothing out of the ordinary. Perfectly normal. Stan Marsh feels like death. Again."

Ike's face paled.

"You feel like what?"

Stan thought for a second, then realised what he had said.

"No, dude, don't worry. Not like that."

"You sure?"

"I'm positive."

"Alright," Ike muttered, clearly unconvinced. Stan was pretty unconvinced of himself.

They fell silent again. Stan wanted to say to Ike what was going on his mind, how it was different to other times, how it was more than other times, but he couldn't. His brain shut down again, and Stan just sighed and turned back to the wall.

Ike bit his lip, holding off the tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes. He hadn't seen Stan this bad before, and silently told himself to grill Kyle when he got back home. But he wasn't done with Stan yet.

"Stan."

A muffled grunt told him that response would not be free-flowing.

"I need you to talk to me."

Stan turned back to face him. Ike's eyes were moist and his face had reddened slightly.

"Why?"

"Because you can't talk to Kyle at the moment and I'm the next best thing."

Stan paused. That thought hurt for so many reasons, but he knew it was true. He definitely couldn't talk to Kyle, the way they both were at the moment. He sighed.

"I have too much shit on at the moment."

"You always have too much shit on. We've all told you that. You can't be the best quarterback in the school and sing in the choir and play in all the bands and do drama and keep on top of all your work without you crumbling. No one could."

"I know."

He sat up. Ike looked at him, and Stan met his gaze. They held each other's eyes for several seconds, before Stan blinked and got up.

"Where are you going?"

"I need to piss. I've needed to for hours."

 _It's an improvement_ , Ike thought.


	3. --- important things ---

**CHAPTER 3: An Episode in which the Crutch needs a Crutch**

"Kenny?"

"Kyle?"

"Can you come over?"

"I'm just by your street anyway, I was gonna kill some rats behind City Wok."

"Dude, you're messed up."

"I'm not the one who sounds like they're on the verge of tears."

 _Fuck_ , Kyle thought, _he can hear_.

"Just get over here quickly."

"Will do, Signor."

Kyle hung up and chucked his phone onto his bed. He was pacing and his nose was running. He'd been crying for a good half an hour; Ike had come back from Stan's house and had laid into him for what seemed like forever about how he'd "abandoned his best friend when he'd needed him most" and "was letting his schoolwork get in the way of the most important things in his life". When Kyle refused to budge, Ike burst into tears and called him an asshole and run away and locked his door and wouldn't leave his room until Kyle went away. Now he was over at the Andersons' where he was helping Filmore with his maths or something; Kyle hadn't really kept track of it.

Kenny arrived what seemed like moments later. He had a big fat smug grin on his face which fell to the floor the moment he saw the state of his redheaded friend. He walked right up to Kyle and hugged him as hard as he could, without even asking for permission. Kyle loosened into his arms immediately as the tears returned in full. They stayed like that for a long time.

"I don't know what to do about him, Kenny."

Kenny was shocked that Kyle was the first to speak. He straightened himself up and loosened his grip on his friend.

"Stan?"

"He's broken."

"He's got too much on."

"He won't listen to me, Kenny."

"I don't think he can."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Kyle's brow furrowed.

"He can't really control how he feels, buddy. His brain is taking him on a fucking rollercoaster ride and you know it."

"But it's so fucking frustrating!" Kyle teared up again.

"I know, I know, it's alright," Kenny consoled as he brought Kyle back into his arms.

They didn't speak of Stan again that evening.


	4. --- it's been him ---

**CHAPTER 4 - In which the Protagonist gets some unbiased Advice from a peripheral Character**

Out of anybody in the year, the last person Stan thought he would go to advice for would be fucking Bridon Gueermo.

Turns out the musical heartthrob of the school was gay. After Tweek and Craig had proven that out students could get through South Park's schooling system without getting the crap beaten out of them, the most sought-after boy in Colorado's crappiest town came out in the ninth grade.

Stan would have met him at Tweak Bros., but the probability of being seen by anyone was too high and he was not in the mood for a random well-meaning acquaintance to shower happiness and positivity onto his little island of misery. So, Stark's Pond it was. No-one came here anymore. Stan thought it funny how things can change so much in so short a space of time.

He saw Bridon already there waiting for him. The kid really needed to get his hair cut now - the style had turned from curtain to full-on wallpapering down the sides of his face. He sat down on the snowy ground next to the boy and sighed.

"So... Kyle."

"Shut up Bridon, I know it's stupid."

"I don't think it's stupid, Marsh."

"Well I do, _Gueermo_." Stan wasn't so tired today, just angry. He had already regretted asking to meet the boy, but Tweek and Craig were both too close to Kyle and the others for their confidentiality to be assured.

"You don't have to tell him," Bridon continued with a glint in his eye.

"I do. It feels wrong, me seeing him like that and then not telling him."

"Right answer."

Stan looked at the younger boy confused.

"I was playing devil's advocate, Stan. I think you should tell him, and evidently you do too. But I know that your gut is screaming at you not to. Because you are afraid. Trust me, Marsh, I've been there."

Stan nodded and then looked down and watched his own chest rise and fall with his breathing.

"How long have you known?"

"Since fourth grade. We had a fight. He called me Cartman and I was really hurt, so I punched him. We fought, and I felt like shit afterwards. I didn't know why it got to me so bad, and why I felt so bad for punching him up. We did that sort of shit all the time. But then I thought about it and ..."

"It was way before then."

Stan was taken aback with how blunt Bridon was being.

"What?"

"You've had the eye for him since I joined the school. I could notice it. Even throughout your infatuation with all the girls, it's been him."

"Shut up."

"I'm being honest here Marsh. You called me out here to talk to you about it, I am talking to you about it."

Stan fell silent once again. To be honest it probably had been pretty obvious. 'Super Best Friends' just screamed 'Intense Homo Attraction'.

Stan sighed. "Do you think he's..."

"No."

Stan jolted his head around and stared at Bridon. "No?"

"I don't think he's gay, no."

"So..."

"You still have to tell him, Stan. Besides, I could be wrong."

"What's the point?" Stan kicked away a rock from beside his feet which went skittering into the pond. "If he's not gay, there isn't any hope of us getting together, there - "

"You know damn well that's not the only reason you want to tell him."

"But he'll flip out."

"He won't flip out. He's the most level-headed kid here."

"He'll flip out, Bridon, the way he is at the moment."

Bridon had to concede he hadn't been following Kyle closely enough recently to disagree.

They paused for some time, during which Bridon checked his phone too many times, and Stan pulled out handfuls of grass from the earth and threw them towards the water. It was approaching mid-day, and several slightly uncomfortable minutes had passed between the boys before Bridon spoke again.

"What is it about him?"

"Dude, are you serious?"

"I want to make sure you're really into him."

"It's not about looks, if that's what you're asking. Well, not _exclusively_."

Bridon chuckled. He had to admit that Kyle somehow had matured into a rather handsome young man. Stan had too, provided he remembered to take care of his appearance on occasion. They _would_ look good as a couple.

"Good. As long as you really love him - "

"Of _COURSE_ I fucking love him!" Stan practically yelled back. A few crows took off from nearby trees as his voice echoed a little. Bridon wasn't surprised - he just smiled softly, and brought Stan in for a hug. Stan didn't refuse.


	5. --- just look away ---

**CHAPTER 5 - In which there is a Confrontation**

Kenny's fist hurt.

Cartman's nose started trickling blood, as Kenny laid into him again. To be fair, the fatass had lost a lot of weight since the end of eleventh grade, but he hadn't put on the muscle mass to compensate. So Cartman really should have realised that picking fights wasn't a wise tactical move.

"DON'T YOU CALL HIM A FAG AGAIN, DIPSHIT!" Kenny caterwauled as Cartman's face became redder and redder. The arcade console was digging into his back, and Kenny didn't seem to be relenting.

"Kenny, stop, it's OK!" Stan called, anxiety clearly starting to set into his voice. Craig had taken Tweek away several minutes ago, and Wendy was standing with Stan to make sure that he could still _breathe slow, deep breaths, it's OK, it's OK, just look away, we can go, we can go, no, OK, just sit down, it's fine, or stand up, that's fine too._

"YOU LOWLIFE SCUMMY ASSHOLE!" Kenny continued, as Cartman's eyes started to droop. Where the fuck were the staff in this mall?

"Jesus, Kenny, please, stop!" Kyle said as he joined the crowd surrounding the fight. Goddammit. Why was he here?

"Jeez ... Kenny ... I'm sorry!" Cartman managed to sound out in between punches. He felt his joints start to loosen a bit.

"K-K-K-Kenny, p-p-pl-p-please, st-st-stop!" a cowering voice called out. At this, Kenny paused, then let go of Cartman's collar and straightened himself out. He didn't turn around - he knew that Stan was on the floor. Kenny had caused him to have a panic attack. He heard tears and knew that he'd taken it too far. He looked down at Cartman, face red with blood and exertion, who was cradling his shoulder and panting for breath. Kyle glared at him, and then looked at the girls surrounding Stan, who were hugging him and giving him bottled water and popcorn and straightening his hair. Kyle rolled his eyes, and moved over to Kenny.

"You need to control yourself, idiot," Kyle whispered venomously into the blonde's ear.

"But Cartman was..."

"I don't fucking care, Kenny, look what you've done."

Kenny still didn't look at Stan cowered in the corner by the bins. Some of the girls had drifted away, leaving Wendy, Annie, Red and Bebe huddled around him. He had started ticcing.

"Kenny, look at him."

"Maybe you should too."

Kyle opened his mouth to retort, but couldn't. He turned to look at him, but stopped himself and wheeled around, slapping Kenny squarely on the cheek. Kenny didn't respond, but glared at Kyle, before turning around and going over the Stan and the girls. Kyle, still frozen in place, horrified at his action, slowly came to his senses; he walked off without turning around again.


	6. --- stickers with numbers ---

**CHAPTER 6 - In which a Second Plot begins to Unfold**

Kyle was just done with all of this shit. He always regretted going out with his friends a little (there had always been something crazy or dangerous or just plain dumb that had gone on) - but more recently, it wasn't that sort of regret. It wasn't regret that was because he had almost done something wrong, or had actually done something wrong, or illegal, or stupid, or questionable. It was just that pure, sad, resigned regret when you realise that you were too stupid to come to terms with the fact that things never change.

Kyle didn't fit in anymore. He thought that after causing the obliteration of most of the eastern half of Canada, he would be kicked out for good, but no, he managed to worm his way back in. But nope, he was right all along, something wasn't right about his inclusion in the group. Cartman was right.

Everything made him stick out. He was ginger. He was Jewish. He was short. He was temperamental. He shut the door behind him as he arrived home, these thoughts circling in his mind like sharks, ever so slightly making their presence known above the water. Ike was at the dinner table, doing homework. He didn't acknowledge his brother's return. Kyle didn't care. Ike could mope around on Stan's behalf all he wanted. Hell, Stan probably had already told him about it. Their bond was stronger than ever.

He went into the kitchen and grabbed a bagel. _G-d, I'm such a Jew._ His faith was bothering him again. He was considering conversion to Catholicism to fit in, but that didn't go well last time. He sighed and bit into the bread, returning past his brother and going upstairs to his room. It was hard to chew - he regretted not toasting it or something. To be honest, he regretted eating it at all.

He decided to tidy his room. He did this when he was feeling stressed. He started with his bookshelf, first sorting the books by thickness, then height, then alphabetical order, then subject and alphabetical order, then Dewey Decimal Number, then colour, before going back to Dewey Decimal Number again and decided that _yes, that's the best way to do it, it's the only way to do it really, maybe I'll even get some stickers and put the numbers on like that, yes, then it will look very professional_ , except in his heart of hearts he knew it wouldn't look very professional, it would just look like some possibly-OCD kid had stuck stickers with numbers on his books because he was struggling with thoughts he wanted to keep away and

 _OH MY G-D_ Kyle's head screamed at him _just do it already_. Kyle's eyes started to well up and he ran onto his bed and banged his head repeatedly against the pillow. He wiped his lower eyelids clear of tears and jumped back up to his feet. As he started pacing the room, he thought back to Stan. He knew. He really really knew. He understood everything that Stan was going through, but like hell he would let on, because Stan could never know. He knew that would only make Stan worse.

 _You're hardly making him feel too great at the moment, asswad._ Kyle flinched at the memory of his friend curled up in the arcade, and shuddered. He'd left him there. All vulnerable. Kenny stayed. Kenny was a good friend. _You're not a good friend, Kyle_. He willed his mind to shut up. Fuck cleaning his room, he was going to go back to the arcade and say sorry for leaving him earlier. More than that, he was going to say sorry for leaving him for the past six years, he was going to say sorry for being an asshole and watching his friend sink to his deepest depths and doing jack shit about it the entire time, he was going to go right now.

He grabbed the ushanka he didn't realise he had left on his bed and ran downstairs, not even taking his coat with him. He was straight out the door, straight on his bike, straight to the mall. It had only been at most twenty minutes since Stan had broken down, there was a good chance he would still be around. Chaining up his bike, he saw Stan's blue and white BMX still there. _Good, I can do something right for once._

He stopped short of calling out Stan's name, but continually asked people _have you seen a group of people around my age, one of them has a brown jacket, blue and red puffball beanie, brown trousers, no, what about his blond friend, orange parka, brown fur, no, ok, how about Wendy, she is wearing pink and purple_ "Sorry kid, you're describing half the teens in this place" _ok, thank you_ and this pattern repeated several times, until he spotted someone he thought he recognised out of the corner of his eye.

Why the fuck was Bridon Gueermo talking to Stan?

Suddenly he felt someone tug his arm. Before he knew it, he was being dragged backwards down the central hall of the mall and into the men's bathroom.

"Don't you fucking dare, Kyle!"

It was Kenny. Kenny was pissed off. Great.

"Dude, I came back to apologise."

"Not now, Kyle, Stan doesn't need you when he's like thi-oh my God, Kyle."

Kenny's entire demeanour changed. His voice fell from anger to worry, no, more than that, fear, in an instant. Kyle was confused as to what got Kenny so shook - it was like his moods balanced on a knife's edge.

"Dude, what the hell? I said, I came back to apologise. What's wrong? I know, I've been a shitty friend, I want to make it up -"

Kenny was tearing up, and Kyle found himself stopping. Kenny looked down, and Kyle had the sudden realisation of what it was. He hadn't put on a coat when he came out.

"You never come out without your coat, Kyle..." Kenny's voice was full of apology.

 _Fuck._

Kenny tried again to speak, but couldn't bring himself to. Kyle, too, started to well up.

"I'm sorry, Kenny, I can't control it."

"What the fuck are you doing to your wrists?"


	7. --- he was numb ---

**CHAPTER 7 - In which our Protagonist loses his Inhibitions and sets up a Fall**

Bridon stuck with Stan and Wendy for the rest of the day, after Kenny disappeared for some reason. At some point, Bridon's boyfriend showed up and they continued talking and emptily walking around the mall until it was time for the mall to close, and then they went home. Stan thought he picked up that Bridon's boyfriend was called Calvin, and that Calvin was the son of Larry, the Prehistoric Ice Man, or Larry's wife, or both of them, he couldn't tell. He was numb.

Fuck Cartman for that stupid joke, and fuck Kenny for making it into a scene. Stan was just going to walk away, but no, there had to be a full-on domestic in the middle of the mall. Not that there was anyone else in the mall, the mall wasn't in the glamorous part of town, so only the kids went there.

He got home and didn't bother checking if anyone else was in. He ran up to his room and shut the door. He couldn't deal with anything else, not with his mother's passive-aggressive 'encouragements' and 'reminders', not with his sister's boy troubles or ever-changing rotation of STDs she picked up from her stupid rock group, not with his father's falseness and drunken stupidity and stupid quasi-liberal bullshit.

He felt like the biggest hypocrite in the world as he took five bottles of Blue Ribbon up to his room.

It was nine-thirty at night before he remembered that his parents were at a geological formal dinner (somehow, after flashing the President of the International Union of Geological Sciences at the last one, Randy wasn't barred for life), and Shelly had taken off at lunchtime for the next leg of whatever minor tour _The Hospital Bombers_ were going on now. By now considerably inebriated, he stared up at the ceiling, and pulled out his phone.


	8. --- the broken one ---

**CHAPTER 8 - In which a Friend struggles for an Idea on how to give Assistance**

Kenny couldn't unsee what he had seen. He hadn't the faintest idea anything was that serious, anything was that bad. Hell, even Stan hadn't got that bad. It all made sense - why Kyle never slept over, why Kyle hadn't been changing with everyone else for PE, why Kyle always wore two sets of wristbands during sports, why Kyle didn't swim, why Kyle never went shirtless despite having arguably the best body of anyone in the year. Why he wore his coat whenever possible.

Kyle had been _hurting_ himself, and he couldn't unsee it. The scars on his arms were all symptoms of the state of Kyle's mind. He couldn't tell how long some of them had been there, but he could see some of them weren't even a few days old. _Fuck, how is it_ him _, out of anyone._

Suddenly, Kenny panicked. Kyle was always the strong one of the group. He was the cornerstone of the entire year, and even though he'd been withdrawing recently, he still held everyone together. And Kenny had a thought, and at this point, Kenny hated himself, because he wasn't worried about Kyle, he was worried about everyone else. Craig and Tweek; Red and Bebe and Heidi; Kevin and Clyde and Butters and Token; even Cartman; even _himself_ ; they all relied on Kyle to be there and be OK.

 _Stan._

 _No, no, no, no, no, no, he can never know._

Kenny couldn't fathom it. Stan was the broken one of the group. That was the way it had been for years now. Stan was the drunk, Stan had anxiety, Stan's anxiety was worse than Tweek's, his depression was worse than Craig's, or Clyde's, or Bridon's, Stan was a mess, it was the way it had to be, _**NOT**_ Kyle. And Kenny hated himself again, because Stan shouldn't have to put up with that either.

It wasn't happening. Kenny refused. As if that would do any shitting good.

Kenny didn't cry. He never cried. At this moment he wished he did, because he felt like crying.

He went to the beat-up desk by the beat-up bookcase at the end of the beat-up bed in his beat-up room in his beat-up house, and grabbed a pen. He opened his notebook, and thought of something to write. He didn't know what writing would do at this point in time, but it had to be better than nothing.


	9. --- how to cope ---

**CHAPTER 9: In which Ground is Covered (in Metaphor and in Meaning)**

It was 9:30 at night before Stan had sobered enough to figure out what he wanted to say, and at 9:31 he decided he had sobered up too much to say it.

 _Fuck_ , _he couldn't tell him_. He needed to get closer to him again first. He'd lost Kyle over the past few years, because of his stupidity. No wonder Kyle left him there in the arcade, he had no reason to help him, Stan had been nothing but problematic to him.

He was going to apologise. He hadn't ever apologised before, for being like this, and he realised he needed to. It wasn't anywhere near what Stan had envisaged telling Kyle tonight, but it probably was the proper thing to do.

He hoped Kyle would be up tonight. He didn't want to be forced into writing a massive paragraph and sending it and having to wait until the morning to find out Kyle's response.

 _Of course he's awake tonight, he's always awake, he never stops working._

How he managed to cope, Stan didn't know. Stan remained in awe of him, even when they didn't speak for weeks on end, the fact that Kyle was always able to achieve everything he needed to, more than he needed to, and never let it get to him - Stan needed to learn from him how to cope, because whatever he did to unwind, it worked wonders.

He felt sober enough to be trusted with a phone now, and so onto Snapchat it was. He tapped on 'Sheila' (he didn't have Kyle's mom on Snapchat, and so it was safe to call Kyle that without risk of a mix-up) and typed:

 **RANDY** : kyle, u awake?

Almost immediately:

 **SHEILA:** Yh.

 **SHEILA:** You not drunk yet?

 **RANDY:** i was. not anymore.

 **SHEILA:** I guess that's something.

 **RANDY:** how r u

 **SHEILA:** Not too shabby. Working through a set of problems on Kruskal's algorithm.

 **RANDY:** won't ask

 **SHEILA:** Graph theory.

 **RANDY:** i repeat, won't ask

 **SHEILA:** lol

 **SHEILA:** Why did you message me?

 _Ouch_ , Stan thought, but he didn't raise it.

 **RANDY:** I wanted to tell you something.

 **SHEILA:** What is it?

 **RANDY:** I

 **RANDY:** am

 **RANDY:** sorry

 **SHEILA:** Dude

 **SHEILA:** The fuck?

 **RANDY:** for being an asshole these past few years

 **RANDY:** it wasnt intentional

 **SHEILA:** Dude

 **RANDY:** youre right i need help

 **SHEILA:** Shut up.

 **RANDY:** the way i cope with things isnt right

 **SHEILA:** Stan

 **RANDY:** i am going to get better kyle i promise

 **SHEILA:** Jesus Christ, Stan, STOP. Don't say another fucking word.

 _Oh._

 **SHEILA:** You're not the one who needs to apologise, dude.

 **SHEILA:** I've not been helping you like you've needed me to.

 **SHEILA:** I don't know whether you've felt like you can approach me

 **SHEILA:** I've let my schoolwork get in the way

 **SHEILA:** Ike is right.

 **SHEILA:** Kenny is right.

 **SHEILA:** I've neglected what is most important in my life.

 **SHEILA:** Stan, I need you so fucking bad right now.

 **SHEILA:** You have always been the most important person in my life.

 **SHEILA:** I'm sorry I've left you behind for so long.

 **SHEILA:** Can I come round?

To be brutally honest, Stan couldn't read the last few clearly through the blurry wash of tears. He wiped them away once he noticed Kyle had stopped typing, clocked the remainder of his monologue, and replied.

 **RANDY** : Please.

 **SHEILA:** Unlock your window. I'm coming buddy.

And so, just like when they were eight, when they were ten, when they were twelve, at 10:00pm Kyle left a note on his bedroom door saying that he'd gone out for some fresh air, and wrapped himself in a long-sleeved cardigan, and put on his slipper-boots, and snuck out of his bedroom window, and slid down the drainage pipe outside, and landed softly on the ground, and crept to the fence, and worked the loose plank away, and writhed his way through to the other side (harder now he had grown somewhat), and clambered up the tree, and along the branch, and perched himself on Stan's windowsill, and waited for the gentle click that came with the window latch being unfastened, and lowered the pane and stepped into his best friend's room, and found himself firmly in the embrace of Stan Marsh.


	10. --- and regrets and ---

**CHAPTER 10 - In which our Protagonist gets the wrong Idea.**

Ike was talking again. Which was something.

In fact, Ike was _really_ chatty. Kyle was a little cautious of what he said around him, just in case it was part of a ploy by Stan to get back to him. But to be honest, he didn't really care if it was or not. He had spent the night over in Stan's room (only sneaking back at half six in the morning) for the first time since sixth grade, and it was great, even amongst tears and regrets and talk of things that could have been. How they could have shared that trip that Stan took to California last summer; how Kyle and Ike had been to Alberta with Gerald where there was a spare bedroom in the little cabin they had rented; how they had sat on opposite ends of the classroom since ninth grade; how Stan had intentionally chosen English in a different timetable block to Kyle so as to not be a burden (but to be honest, who knew how South Park's classes were timetabled or who did it); how there was a whole bunch of shit that they didn't even know about each other anymore. Kyle didn't want to say he had forgotten when Stan's birthday was, something he had always known straight off the top of his head; Stan didn't want to say he had forgotten Kyle's middle name. Stan didn't know that Kyle was into the music of twenty øne piløts; Kyle didn't know that Stan was into the novels of P.D. James. Kyle had taken up saxophone; Stan had taken up programming. In short, a lot of stuff to catch up on.

Ike seemed to know. He was beaming. Kyle was happy - he just didn't want to put a foot out of place. Goddamn, he was the happiest he'd been in a long time.

He needed to tell Kenny that.

Suddenly, there was a ring. Someone was at the door, and naturally, because his parents were useless and sleeping in until at least half way through the afternoon (being a Sunday in the holidays), Kyle and Ike arm-wrestled to determine who had to get the door.

Ike was strong for a twelve-year-old.

He opened the door, expecting to find the milkman (since when did South Park have a milkman?), or a paper boy, or one of those people who try and flog whichever new takeout place had opened up down the street, or even Stan, or Stan's parents, or the police, or Cartman coming to stir some shit up - but no, it was Kenneth McCormick, with a guitar in his hands.

"Kenny, I - "

 _"PLEASE",_ Kenny began dramatically with a vigorous strum of the nylon strings, and Kyle noticed he had attached a little wire music stand to the guitar, onto which was fastened a crumpled piece of notepaper. Kenny promptly realised he had begun a little loud, as Ike glared over from his algebra on the table, and so shrunk back into his cardigan a little.

" _Please don't, I know it's hard sometimes,_

 _I feel you -_ "

"Dude, what the fuck is this?"

Kenny looked a little hurt for a second. "It's a song, Kyle. I wrote it for you after everything yesterday."

Kyle paled a little. "Dude, _not in front of Ike,_ " he whispered pointedly into the blond's ear. " _He doesn't know._ "

Kenny looked sheepish. "Oh, sorry."

Kyle looked the blond up and down. God, Kenny was an angel. He had the mind of a whore from an 18th-century Parisian sailors' brothel, but he was so goddamn sweet and selfless. He rolled his eyes and brought him in for a hug, before saying to him, "You wanna go down to the basement? We can talk things through there."

Kenny's eyes brightened. "Sure, Kyle, I'd like that."

And so Kyle brought Kenny into his house, completely oblivious to a incredulous Stan Marsh staring at the pair from his own doorstep. Kenny had a guitar out for Kyle, and Stan in his poor sweet scrambled brain only could see one thing.

Kenny was moving in on his man.


	11. --- freshly wet cheeks ---

**CHAPTER 11 - In which a Cat is most veritably let out of a Bag**

Craig Tucker, somehow, had become known as one of the most level-headed kids in town. His depression was bad, that much was true, but unlike Clyde, he didn't smoke pot, and unlike Stan, he didn't drink, and unlike Bridon, he didn't need therapy. He took his Celexa and he was OK 98% of the time. And Tweek more than helped too.

Still, the endless advisory roles he had ended up taking on a decidedly bitter feel. He had to give advice to Clyde on when Bebe broke up with him _again_ ; to Kenny on the twenty-five possible titles for Kenny's EP he was sending into studios in Denver (he hadn't heard back yet, last time he checked); even to Kyle on how to wear his hair. And it all seemed pointless.

So, when Stan showed up at the door, seemingly the last person in the town who hadn't yet sought his oracular wisdom, he just sighed.

He immediately regretted it, because he saw Stan's puffy eyes and runny nose and instead chose his more characteristic greeting of flipping him off. Stan chuckled a little, and didn't wait for an invite to come in. Craig couldn't smell alcohol. _Shit, this must be bad_.

"What can I do for you, Marsh?"

"I need some advice."

Craig rolled his eyes, but continued, "Anything. It seems to be what I'm good for."

"You're good for a lot more than that," Stan snapped back, before his face creased. Craig didn't know where the compliment came from, and Stan didn't really either. It's just anyone was better in his eyes at the moment than

"Kenny McCormick is an asshole," Stan went on, before plopping himself down on the Tuckers' family sofa. Like most of the adults in South Park, the Tuckers were at some potluck at the Blacks' house, and so (save from Token and by proxy Nichole) the kids were (like too often in this stupid town) free to do what they wanted. Stan legitimately thought most of them didn't have jobs anymore.

"What's new?" Craig retorted, before this time his face contorted - it was an empty comeback and one that didn't bear too much resemblance to reality. "Wait, what? Kenny?"

"He's an asshole", Stan repeated.

"Dude, the way you seem to be at the moment, you'll be seeing everything as an asshole. _Literally_ ," he emphasised, as if his point wasn't clear enough already.

"Fuck off, Craig, just because you have some nut-candy to tide you over."

Craig just flipped him off again. "You came over for help, knobface, you want it?"

Stan paused, then sighed. "I'm sorry dude, I'm just really under a lot of pressure."

"As always."

"Everyone's saying that to me."

"Then you should listen."

Stan didn't think for too long about that. "Not even school stuff. Just. Personal stuff." He paused. "Inter- - interpersonal stuff."

Craig's eyebrows arched. "Oh?"

Stan paused. He couldn't make it sound like he had it for Kenny, because A) that couldn't be further from the truth and B) he would in essence come out to Craig, and though he was sure Craig wouldn't be judgmental on the one hand ( _what kind of fucked-up gay dude would be like that_ , he thought, except he knew were he in Craig's shoes, he'd probably be like that), he also wasn't even comfortable with Bridon and Calvin knowing, and so telling anyone as close to the rest of his circle as Craig would sit about as easy as a three-day old burrito from Casa Bonita.

"Kenny... Kenny likes who I like."

"Oh."

"And I watched him go up to ... this person and serenade ... them with a guitar and I felt sick and I need your advice."

"Does Kenny know you like him?"

"No, I don't think so, I've only told one person, and he wouldn't tell Kenny."

"Does _he_ know you like him?"

"No, I don't -" Stan stopped. "What do you mean, _him_?"

"Kenny's gay, Stan."

"No, he's pan."

"He came out again last month, dude, he said he was only into guys now."

At that, Stan panicked. He'd done it, he'd done it, he'd gone and _fucking_ outed himself in front of Craig _Fucking_ Fucker and he had time and he could have saved it, said it was a mistake, Kenny couldn't have been into the guy _shit_ the **girl** he was into if he was gay, but he'd agreed, subconsciously he'd agreed, and now Craig was going to know, and so he'd tell Tweek, and then one of them _probably Tweek, Tweek couldn't control himself_ _ **fuck**_ _now I can't either_ Tweek would tell one of the guys and then Kyle would find out and everything would be fucking **ruined** and

"STAN!" Craig hollered, and Stan jumped and coughed and hiccoughed and choked and started ticcing. "Fucking hell," Craig muttered as he went to console Stan; Stan meanwhile was busy trying to remember how to breathe _nope get away from me Craig I don't need this_ and darted up and went across the room.

"Stan, please, I can help, I'm used to this."

"Used t-t-to what-t-t-t?" Stan bit back, starting to hyperventilate and with freshly wet cheeks. "A sh-sh-shhhhhhhaking f-f-ffffffaggot-t-t in your fffront-t-t-t-t rrrrrooooooom?" _Fuck,_ he hated the stammering.

"To put it bluntly, yes!". Craig locked the door from the inside, which to be honest didn't feel like the most comforting thing to do to a quivering ball of anxious mess.

"Sit down and breathe, Stan," Craig continued, bringing his arm around his house guest and guiding him back to the couch. "7, 9, 11. If you forget to breathe, stop it and just manage it how you can, but try in for seven, hold for 9, out for 11. Or start with 3, 5, 7 if your breathing is too fast now."

Stan hated how patronising Craig had to be to help him, and despite himself it worked. Twenty minutes later, and the two had in front of them some (thankfully meth-free) coffee, Stan again dabbing his eyes.

"It's OK to be gay." Craig offered. Stan glared back at him, before his eyes softened and the sides of his mouth curled slightly. They shared a silent minute or two, before Stan asked up: "What do I do about Kenny?"

"You don't want him to know?"

"No."

"Then ask him from his point of view. Ask him if he's trying to 'get lucky' with whoever it is or whatever. You know, play it off as a joke."

"And what if he says yes?"

"Win the guy's heart yourself."

"What if Kyle's not gay?"

Craig looked over and his eyebrows arched again.

 _Shit._


	12. --- with muffled whispers ---

**CHAPTER 12: In which the Deuteragonist opens his Heart at an Inopportune Time, and leaves other Characters in his Wake**

"Dude, stop staring at them."

Kenny snapped out of his daze and realised how awkward it must be to have someone staring at your scars like that. But _fucking hell how could Kyle have gotten so bad without anyone noticing?_

"KENNY!"

"Jesus, Jesus, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it just shocked me. And I've still not got it quite clear in my head."

"That makes fucking two of us." Kyle threw down the blanket he'd been clutching to his chest and practically flew off the sofa dragging his hoodie beihnd him, storming to the corner of the room and zipping the fabric around him.

"Kyle, I'm sorry, that was insensitive, I'll choose my words better, I'll - "

"That's exactly the problem, Kenny!" Kyle span around, but the look it his eyes was not anger but sorrow. "You shouldn't have to! Not every fuckingword should have some second meaning that will trigger the worst parts of my brain!"

"Dude, you may want to lower your voice if you don't want Ike to hear..." Kenny posited.

Kyle suddenly shrunk into himself, then took a breath or two before returning to the blond's side on the couch.

"I shouldn't feel like this, Kenny. I shouldn't have to hide in the basement and cower and conspire and talk about it with muffled whispers. It shouldn't _FUCKING_ be there at all!"

"Kyle!"

The thumping of feet duly followed Kyle's outburst, and Ike's concerned face poked around the corner of the doorframe leading into the basement lounge.

"Everything alright?"

Kenny began, "Yes, everything's fine, all - "

"Actually, Isaac, I need to tell you something."

"Shit." Kenny's eyes lowered. When Kyle used Ike's full name, goddamn it's serious.

"Don't use my full name, Kyle, you're freaking me a bit."

"It's not too freaky, just - just a fucking ballache." And then Kyle rolled up his sleeves.

"Shit, Kyle, ease him into it!" Kenny was visibly appalled.

Ike faltered for words, before his hanging jaw shut. He then stutteringly got up off of the sofa and turned to go.

"Ike?" Kyle offered. No response, and the redhead grew more indignant. "Ike, this is not what I need from you!"

"Just - wait a second, Kyle," Ike said as he paused and turned to look at his brother.

Kyle stood up and darted over to Ike, grabbing his wrist. "You can't just leave after I've shown you, Ike, that's not fair!"

"I have to do something, Kyle!"

"Kyle," Kenny interjected, "you're laying it on him thick, maybe let him process it!"

"It's not that Kenny," Ike retorted, "it's just - "

"Ike? Is everything alright?" another, familiar voice piped in as more feet descended the staircase.

 _Oh no, he can't see this._

"Um... maybe... um, yes, Stan, just..."

And as Stan reached the bottom of the steps and turned into the room, he was met with so many thoughts - how the asshole Kenny McCormick was in the basement under a blanket on Kyle's couch, how Ike was puffy-eyed and sniffling, how Kyle looked horrified at his arrival _they were doing it I was right Kenny has taken him I can't compete I'm done I can't anymore_ and Stan started to turn to go when something else caught his eye, Kyle wasn't horrified, he was pleading, apologetic, but not the sort of apology when you've done something to hurt someone else, but the kind of look of apology you get from a child who has burnt their hand on a stove top, the kind of look of apology where the only person they were hurting was themselves, the kind of look Stan knew only too well because it spent the holidays living on his face, and Kyle was starting to turn, and so Stan ran over to him and caught his wrist and turned his arms around and

"NO STAN, GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"

Kyle ripped his arm out of Stan's hands and ran out of the lounge, vaulting up the stairs three at a time. Stan stood motionless, unsure as to whether he was going to cry or tic profusely. The feeling of Ike's hand on his left elbow shocked him out of his stillness, and he turned to the younger boy with a face full of questioning.

"I didn't know until just now either," was all that Ike could offer by way of consolation.

Stan nodded solemnly, and then turned with a cold glare to Kenny, who sat misty-eyed on the couch.

"And how long did you know for?"

"A few days."

"He told you?"

"No. He..." _Oh shit, this will be sensitive._ "He came looking for you in the arcade, but I caught him beforehand. He wasn't wearing a jacket and I saw and..."

"You stopped him from seeing me?" Stan was shaking now, a mix of anxiety and anger.

"Stan, you were in no state to see him like that."

"Answer my fucking QUESTION, McCormick!"

"Stan, calm it," Ike advised, but Stan wheeled around instinctively and planted a backhand squarely around Ike's face.

Stan returned home with another word. Kyle wasn't seen again all evening.


	13. --- a good laugh ---

**CHAPTER 13** : **In which we find a Formation of an unlikely Allegiance.**

"What do you want, Kahl?" God, his voice still grated when he drawled his name like that.

"Just let me in, fuckknuckle," Kyle replied, "unless anyone else is here?" It was dark by now.

"No, just me, Jew-boy," Cartman replied. He somehow could sense that Kyle's usual annoyance at his digs was replaced by a more general annoyance at everything. Hmm. "Mom's at a class or some shit..."

Kyle marched into Cartman's kitchen and went straight for the fridge. He knew that the beer was Eric's, and so there was no way he was touching that. He headed instead for the wine, which was almost certainly Liane's, as Cartman wasn't a fan of wine wine is for pussies and poured himself a healthy amount into a pint glass.

"If you're taking my mom's wahne, Kahl, you better at least refill the bottle far enough so she can't tell."

"Sure thing, Cartman," Kyle sighed, heading over to the sink and watering down the wine until it had returned to its original level. It's a white, she won't be able to tell.

Cartman, in the meantime, had made his way up to his room, and Kyle naturally assumed to follow. He really wasn't sure whether Cartman's asinine attitude was really what he needed right now but, as much as he hated the fact, the two of them kept each other grounded through everything. They were dickwads to each other, that much was evident - but they were the only people who consistently kept the other in check. Everyone else was too nice. Or stupid. Or aimless, lost, hopeless and disinterested.

Cartman, incidentally, was also the only person who had known about Kyle's... little hobby... since it had started and, credit to him, kept mum about the whole thing. Who else could he turn to?

"I repeat," Eric started as Kyle entered his room, "what do you want?" Eric could sense that maybe turning down the dickery was beneficial in this situation, particularly as Kyle looked like he could burst into tears at any second.

"Kenny saw my scars."

At that Eric's face completely dropped. "Oh, shit."

"And then he came over and we talked it out, and then Ike came down to the basement and I showed him too, but he'd let Stan in, and Stan came down, and I couldn't cope and -" Kyle stumbled over his own words and downed half of his wine.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down Broflovski - who knows?"

"Kenny, and Ike, and Stan. And you, of course."

"Shit, OK. Not OK, but OK."

"Not OK," Kyle repeated.

Cartman fell silent and turned to stare at the wall, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. He was actually thinking of something.

"Dude, I always meant to ask..."

"Not now, Kahl, I'm thinking..."

"I can see that, dumbass, I wanted to ask you something else."

Cartman rolled his eyes and turned back to Kyle, sitting on his bedroom floor. Fuck, he was so vulnerable

"Why do I trust you, Eric?"

well shit if that's how we're playing it

"Bit rude, Kahl."

"You know why I'm asking."

"Because you think ah hate you."

"Dude, I don't..."

"Yeah, you do. You think ah only tolerate you for mah best interests. Well, newsflash, Kahl, ah don't tolerate you for mah better interests, because it doesn't help mah better interests."

"Eric, I..."

"Ah put up with your stupid Jew ass because ah lahke you, Kahl." He paused, trying not to sound too gay, but decided he should say it. "Ah need you."

There was a massively uncomfortable pause.

Kyle, unsure as to how to respond, could only say, "Like... in that way?"

"Ah... ah... ah don't know, Kahl. Ah don't think so, but... ah need you because you are the one person here who sees me for what ah truly am."

Kyle really didn't need Cartman opening up to him now after everything that happened, but he appreciated it immensely.

Then, he burst out crying.

Fucking hell.

Cartman, for his part, looked actually apologetic for the first time in living memory, and floundered for something to say. "Shit, Kahl, I'm sorry."

Kyle glared up through watery eyes. "OK, rule one, whatever this relationship between us is, never fucking apologise to me again, OK? It feels unnatural."

Pause. Then the two of them started laughing.

It was a good laugh.


	14. --- know what's happened ---

**CHAPTER 14: In which another Bag is thoroughly de-Catted (during another Confrontation)**

Kenny's fists hurt.

Stan's did too.

The two of them were brawling out behind City Wok - sure, out front of City Wok, Shi Tpa Town was respectable and all (and **no-one** would _dare besmirch the sacred_ __ground that was Whole _Foods, of course), but the TV_ cameras never come back behind the _buildings, they stick to the main streets, no-one wuld ever find them punching each other up here, oh my god what if Kenny kills me_

Stan's face fell, and he had second thoughts about pummelling Kenny to the ground. Unfortunately, Kenny's thought processes weren't going in the same direction, and he took Stan's brief complacence as a prime opportunity to lay into him all the harder.

Somehow Kenny had not succumbed to the malnutrition and continued diseases that threatened to do him in when he was younger, and had grown into a healthy and (it had to be said) rather attractive young man. _Not helpful when he's fucking your face up, idiot._ Stan snapped out of that thought as Kenny landed another square left hook into his jaw.

 _Well, nothing broken yet._

"KENNY, STOP, I'M SORRY!"

Kenny paused, panting, and the red mist seemed to fall from before his eyes.

"The fuck is up with you Stan? You called me out here, you said you wanted to talk, I get here, you break my fucking nose!"

Stan looked up, and actually saw Kenny for the first time that afternoon. Before, all he was was a mess of blond hair and tanned skin and disgust. Now, he looked over his friend (?) and saw that he'd really actually done quite a number on Kenny's face.

"What are your plans with Kyle, Kenny?"

Kenny paused, his face red with blood, his nose slightly crooked to the side.

"What?"

"Why haven't you left his side for two days?" Stan spat, gesticulating wildly. "I know you were staying at his house last night, I know you've been writing songs for him, I know the last person who you did all of this for was Bebe, and I ain't letting you fuck him over, and -"

"STAN, fuck, just..." Kenny was visibly exasperated. "Just shut the fuck UP sometimes, jeez..." Stan stopped and looked back at him, the fury from their fight a minute ago replaced with suppliant fear.

"OK... OK, I've stopped." _Fuck, what's my excuse for caring so much, fuck, fuck fuck fuck, oh my god, he's gonna figure out, he already knows, fuck fuck, it's like Craig all over again, what do I tell_

Kenny sighed and tentatively padded at his nose. _SHIT, that hurts._ He decided that poking his newly-broken nose might be high on the list of things not to do at this given instance, and sat up against the back of City Wok. Stan crawled over and propped himself up, half-leaning on him. "What does it matter to you?"

"I - I - he doesn't take romance well - you remember -"

"Romance?" That had Kenny audibly chuckle incredulously.

"Yeah, you remember when Wendy had broken up with me that one time and tried to get with him at a party?"

"What does romance have to do with it?" Kenny snorted. His face then fell a little. "I don't want to fuck Kyle, Stan. I have no ulterior motives. I just... I just am worried about you both. And you ... you seem to be able to take care of yourself better than him. You ... don't do what he does..." He paused, lip quivering. "Do you?"

"No, Kenny." Stan's voice was cold. "At least, not with anything sharp." That had Kenny worried - his blue eyes met Stan's suddenly. Stan thought distantly to himself that he seemed to have a knack for delivering minor revelations in the worst possible way. "I drink. I smoke. I've dabbled in weird shit. But nothing like that." _Well that will hardly calm his fears._

"You - you weren't meant to find out like that." Kenny seemed to be apologising. "Kyle didn't want you to find out like that. He didn't want me to find out at the mall, he _certainly_ wouldn't have wanted you to find out that day either, he just didn't come out with a coat, he was coming to apologise to you, he ..." Kenny trailed off; his thoughts were scrambling. "I don't know what's happened to our fucking year anymore. We're all fucking screwed up and it hurts."

Stan agreed. He had no comeback to that, he completely agreed. He just sighed, and stared off to the distance, trying to avoid the potent mix of smells mingling in his nose: low-quality lo mein and garbage, and sweating onions, and blood and testosterone, and copper, and rat urine, and desperation. He fumbled for a cigarette in his pocket, catching one of his split knuckles on the zip and swearing under his breath. Kenny looked over.

"Fetch me one?"

"Sure thing, Kenny..."

 _I guess that was an alright outcome?_ Stan sighed to himself, as he placed the straight between his lips and lit up. He passed the box to Kenny, who took one himself, and lit it. The two boys sat smoking between the rats and dumpsters and discarded bottles and polystyrene, looking out over the unused parking lot and beyond to the outskirts of town, and beyond it, the world.

"Stan?"

"Huh?" The noiret looked over.

"He's not ready to find out yet."

"What?"

"You can't tell him how you feel."

"WHAT?" Stan's heart sunk, and he almost dropped his cigarette from his mouth.

"Don't even try dude. You've started talking to Bridon. No-one just starts talking to Bridon. And all of this?" He paused, looked over, and sighed. "I feel you, Stan. I really understand. But he's not ready."

"He's not ready?"

"Just ... we'll talk about this some other time. Let's just calm down for the moment." And with that, it was clear that Kenny was done talking for the time being.

Stan, a little sick inside, for the first time keenly notied the taste of blood in his mouth, and realised that his top lip had split. _Ah well, no-one's home tonight, no explaining to do._ His shoulders sank, he relaxed into his cigarette, and he and Kenny watched the birds fighting over the rooves of the houses behind City Wok.


	15. --- three fags on a sofa ---

**Chapter 15: In which an Analogy is made to further Understanding of a Situation.**

Craig wasn't expecting to see Stan so soon after his last visit, and yet, here he was on his front doorstep again.

"Seriously, Marsh, you need to get a different hobby," Craig offered, seeing that Stan, though _ludicrously_ battered up, seemed to be in a half-OK mood. "Fighting and dropping in to see me can only get you so far in life. Soon you'll need a job."

"Fuck off Tucker," Stan retorted, taking the initiative for once and flipping Craig off before he had a chance to do the same. Craig feigned shock, but followed Stan to the couch after shutting the door, and plopped himself beside him.

A few uncomfortable seconds passed, before Stan turned and stared Craig directly in the eyes. "You never told anyone that you and Tweek broke up."

Craig's whole body shifted and he swallowed. "Who ... told you? You can't have spoken to Tweek, you've never gotten on."

"Kenny did. He's the one who did this to my face."

"How's he looking?" Craig raised an eyebrow.

"His nose is 20 degrees to the left now."

"He keeps on spreading shit about me, it won't be staying on his face much longer."

"Easy tiger," Stan replied, trying not to smile too much. "I know it's not shit, you know it's not shit, let's not pretend here." He slouched down a bit, and turned to half-watch whatever godawful docudrama was blaring out of Craig's TV. A few seconds later, Craig relented, relaxed and slouched alongside. "How long you been single for?" Stan continued.

"Too long," Craig answered. When Stan made it clear he wasn't happy with that as an answer, he elaborated. "The start of the term, Tweek came back from that stupid music camp he was on, and - I could tell, he'd been with someone else, he wasn't calm around me anymore, he'd never let me use his laptop or his phone, he - we didn't fuck after that point." Craig was monotonous, his eyes started to glaze over just a bit - and Stan could tell he wanted to talk about it.

"The fuck? Tweek cheated?"

"It wasn't cheating, Marsh, Tweek and I had an open relationship. That in itself wasn't the problem, just -"

"An open relationship? Like, you fucked around?"

"Yeah, if we wanted to. Not always. I didn't. I didn't find anyone else to fuck around with."

"Right. Okay..." Stan knew about open relationships - Kenny and Bebe had one for years - but they still confused him. The idea of a non-exclusive relationship just seemed riddled with so many plot points, inconsistencies and variables - Stan didn't think of himself as bright and that seemed way too much to compute.

Craig could have read his mind for all Stan knew, because he turned to him and said, "It's not actually stressful. People think it's all suspicion and manipulation and mind games - but it's not. You just have to learn to trust people to know themselves best. You want happiness for someone you love, and so you trust them to do what makes them happy." Stan thought he could hear just the beginnings of tears starting to well up. "And - when someone wants to go, you let them go, because you love them." Craig was looking through the television, burning a hole in the far wall with his eyes.

 _Fuck, when did Tucker turn into such an emo?_ Stan looked at him, and realised for the first time in his life how similar the two of them looked.

Craig's head barely turned to Stan. "So it's Broflovski for you?"

Stan bristled. "We've covered this. I've covered it with Bridon, I've covered it with you, I've covered it with Kenny. I don't need to talk about Kyle." _Fucking Tucker._

"Then why are you here?"

"The fuck that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Marsh, think about it. Why are you here, talking to me, someone who you would probably say you dislike intensely?"

"Who said that?"

"I can tell. I might be on meds but they don't completely make me lose my emotional intelligence."

"You had that in the first place?"

Craig shoved his middle finger directly into Stan's face for that comment. "I don't know why everyone thinks I'm an asshole..."

"It's 'cause you are one, Craig. Not a difficult one."

"If you're here to insult me then you can just fuck off, Marsh." Craig's voice said he was joking, but his eyes told differently.

Stan felt uncomfortable. _What if he starts throwing punches too? He's fit, he'll be able to flatten me in an instant, oh my god, what if Craig Tucker fucks me over, where the fuck is_

Kenny appeared outside the front window, staring in, his nose set in place and his face smiling goofily. Craig rolled his eyes and Stan sighed the _tiniest_ sigh of relief before Craig hoisted himself up and let Kenny in.

"He knows," both Kenny and Stan say in unison, before turning to each other and glaring.

Craig lets out a dry laugh, but his body looked like it felt numb. "I know everything. I could run a mafia in this town on the secrets I've learnt from people."

"You should get qualified," Kenny proffered, setting hiimself between the other boys on the couch. "You know, as a therapist."

"You know, maybe I will," Craig smirked, though once again his body betrayed his insincerity.

"You into anyone, Kenny?" Stan questioned. "Any brokenheartedness you want to share with us?"

"Oh, _soooooo_ many people, you wouldn't believe..."

 _Try me,_ Craig thought, before he realised it had come out of his mouth. Kenny elbowed him, but continued as if uninterrupted.

"Three or four guys. As always." Kenny's answer was unusually terse. He paused, before brightening up again with a sardonic chuckle.

"What?" Craig and Stan both asked.

"I just like this. _Three Fags on a Sofa._ Would be a great name for an album."

Craig cracked a smile. "I'd buy that album."

Stan broke as well. "Me too."

Kenny smiled, but the sombre ennui of the afternoon caught up to the three boys once more. They sat in silence, before Kenny got up and mumbled something about Craig's gym equipment and snuck off to the basement. Craig and Stan upheld the silence for a little longer, before Craig whistled something unrecognisable to break it.

"What you whistling?" Stan said. _Seriously, is this what it's come to? Fucking Guess the Tune?_

"Stravinsky."

"Who?"

"He was a composer. Tweek really loved him. Some of it I don't get, but some of it's beautiful. Wait, I'll pull it up..." He turned off the TV, and pulled out his phone. "'Mass' for choir and double wind quintet." Craig smiled at the sound of himself reciting the musical jargon. "Basically, ten wind instruments and a shit ton of singers."

Stan chuckled. It made it seem so much less - holy. Craig began to play the piece from his phone, a noisy, cantankerous, dissonant mix of voices, woodwind and brass.

Stan, for his part, seemed unimpressed at first. After a few minutes, all he could offer was, "It's not very - tuneful."

"Not all of it has to be. But when the tuneful stuff does come, it makes even more of an impact."

True enough, the second movement had begun, an oboe and a trumpet, soon joined by a voice, weaving together. It was stunning. Stan was transfixed.

The music continued, some of it harsh and muscular, some of it graceful and fluid, all of it increasingly affecting the boys as tehy sat, not uttering a word to each other. Some time mid-third movement, Kenny returned upstairs and stood at the doorway to the basement, listening as well.

Once the music came to an end, Kenny silently returned down to the weights, and Stan wiped a tear from his eye. "It... I don't know how to put this... It didn't finish the way I expected it to...?"

"It didn't resolve," Craig offered. "I get that. All the other movements end with some kind of final chord, but that last movement - it's suggesting there's gonna be more. And there isn't." Craig got up and ambled to the kitchen to get a glass of water and Stan, feeling a little emotionally vulnerable after the music, followed him like a wounded gosling. "To be honest, it's like life. Tweek taught me that. I don't get a lot of music, and some of the concert hall stuff is seriously weird - but Tweek taught me how to understand it. Even if I don't understand it musically, I can understand it in my own way." He downed a glass of water in one and placed one on the countertop in front of Stan, who took it. He placed the empty glass down, and sat on the table, looking inquisitively at Stan. "That piece? I couldn't tell you how it was written, Marsh, but I still feel like I get it. It's chaotic but it's beautiful. It's religious, so it's trying to grasp at something beyond what we can imagine. And it never quite resolves. It grows, it has contours, it ... it has drama and action and romance but it never gives us a nice simple answer." Craig's eyes were quietly passionate, and they were searching Stan to see what he was making of it. "Tell me that's not a perfect image of life. Tell me that's not love. I dare you, Marsh!"

Stan was, in all honesty, a little overwhelmed. Trying to process Craig's theories on life, the universe and everything had meant he almost drowned drinking the water. But he couldn't help but agree. He managed a juddery but convicted nod to Craig, who took it as satisfactory approval. He paused, before diving down underneath the kitchen sink so fast that Stan was sure he was either possessed or having a heart attack.

"You OK, Craig?" Stan called out uncertainly. He heard shuffling and the rearranging of various bottles and jars under the Tucker household sink.

"Mm-hm," Craig mumbled back, before his body arched slightly and he pulled back from the cupboard to turn and look at Stan. "Call me _Tucker_. It feels more familiar." He then went back to shuffling around under the sink.

 _Fine then,_ _Tucker_ , Stan mouthed to himself. He looked around their kitchen, realising it was the first time he had been to the Tucker household since he was 6, and noted how the family had retiled and repainted and rearranged and rewired and replugged and refitted and redesigned the whole space.

"Found it!" Craig returned from his brief excursion brandishing a pack of wet wipes.

"The fuck this for?" Stan exclaimed. "You gonna do my make up?"

"Just... don't make this awkward," said Craig, who began tentatively dabbing at the patches of blood and muck on Stan's face. Stan made to object, before deciding that perhaps having Craig _fucking Tucker_ wiping blood off of his face wasn't that bad of a thing to be happening to him. From the doorway down to the basement, Kenny chuckled, before heading out the front door without a word.


End file.
